


Metamorphosis

by eon_s



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Animalistic, Biting, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Character Death In Dream, Cock Vore, Coming In Pants, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Franz Kafka References, Gore, Insanity, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Masochism, Monsters, Nightmares, Painplay, Self-Indulgent, Vore, Wet Dream, Wound Fucking, just playing around with themes and ideas, oh well, the sex and the fic end abruptly, this could probably use more proof reading, this is not very good but i am very mentally ill and i need this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26693290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eon_s/pseuds/eon_s
Summary: A self-indulgent fic where the Joker has a wet dream/nightmare that features: an apocalypse, Kafka-esque monstrousness and body horror, and his own murder at the hands of his old enemy, Batman.It's exactly what it says on the tin.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 29





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another 'first foray into a fandom' where this is what I bring to the table. How grotesque.

* * *

As dreams go, it’s a weird one, even by the Joker’s standards.

He is in a pipe. A drain pipe, to be precise, and oh, there’s some particularly ripe, low-hanging fruit to be plucked if he wanted to make a joke about clowns and drainpipes, but he’s not _that_ desperate for a punchline.

Not yet anyway.

He’s… long. Stretched – no – no… there’s just more of him than there is normally. He wriggles his toes experimentally. A multitude of chitinous legs shiver in the darkness.

 _I awoke in uneasy dreams to find myself transformed into a monstrous vermin,_ he thinks, paraphrasing, and laughs at the strangeness of it.

It doesn’t hurt – or if it does, he’s had worse. It’s hard to say. The pipe feels close and clammy against him – cold – but it’s not bad. It’s reassuring. There’s a word for that, he knows, but in the moment it escapes him. Something cockroaches feel – the desire to have something touching them from all sides at once. Similar to the soporific calm that’s produced by a bunch of brutish orderlies wrapping you up in a freezing, soaking-wet sheet. Similar to that elusive pleasure of being tied up when the Bat is feeling particularly thorough. (Joker’s no easy prey – would chew his leg off like a fox in a trap if he had to – but he makes an exception for one – only one.)

The Bat – funny, as soon as he thinks of him, he is certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that his old enemy is here – wherever here is. There’s a light ahead – light at the end of the tunnel – ha! Not that the Joker puts much stock in religion, but if there were a heaven, he’s damn sure he wouldn’t be granted admission. Still – there’s only one place to go, no room to turn around, and he’s curious – so curious he’s itching in all his hundreds of fidgeting insect feet.

Creeping along the damp pipe’s interior, he feels ambiguous slime – filth of some kind – coating his exoskeleton. Contrasting the rough, rusted metal, it feels sensual. Good. The long trek through the midnight dark of the tunnel is punctuated by the scraping of his underbelly along the surface beneath him. He feels some strange, many-pronged, and multi-headed facsimile of a sex organ begin to poke out from between plates in his armoured flesh somewhere far away, down his long, winding body. _Curiouser and curiouser –_ he wants to look, to see, but he can only crawl, bound for that blinding disk and whatever world lay beyond it.

His compound eyes flash kaleidoscope sequins and bright, glorious bursts so strong they make him scream as he emerges like a fetus from a great metal womb. He clings to the edge of the pipe, the sphincter, and lifts his mucous-laden head, mandibles spreading wide in a wild, inhuman grin.

A flapping makes him freeze. His eyes have scarcely adjusted to the pale grey sunlight beating unforgivingly down upon a wasteland of tar pits, scorched earth, and barbed wire, when something swoops across the sky, eclipsing, casting a shadow with enormous, leathery wings.

It’s him – and yet not quite. Not as he normally is. What remains of a human form exists only from the waist down – nude, muscular legs curled beneath a swollen, furred barrel of a belly. The Bat’s face is an amalgam of needle teeth and a nose sprouting strange protuberances. It froths at the mouth, pointed tongue lolling as it turns its eyes upon the tunnel’s cunt-mouth, and the Joker dangling there, as if still tethered by an invisible umbilical cord.

His not-cock swells and chafes, fucking a rut into the grime on the pipe’s floor, but the Joker is too distracted to appreciate it. A strange, primordial instinct is telling him to hide, to go back into the pipe where the Bat can’t follow. Curiosity roots him to the spot even as he flattens himself down. He is too garish, too white – a bright maggot against the coarse fur of a horse with flystrike. He is exposed – vulnerable.

The Bat swoops again. He is so big he fills the whole sky. He glides low and extends one dextrous foot to catch The Joker and pull him from his den. The panic sets in immediately. This is the snare – this is the bear trap – and the Joker tries to determine which of his infinite legs have gotten caught. He cannot reach them to bite them off, so he settles for twisting in place, rolling and roiling, trying to rip them out at the joint.

The Bat swoops a final time and drops the Joker from a great height. When he hits the unforgiving stone of a small mountain, he feels his exoskeleton crack along the middle of his back. Fluids begin to leak across the ground, pooling beneath him, coagulating, and from them rises a smell of something tangy – acidic.

Insects do not belong on their backs. The Joker – human or in his strange abomination-state as now – does not belong on his back, either. Belly-up is the position of dogs submitting, of victims, of prey. The Joker is not prey – he is predatory by design, every reflex, every instinct honed over a lifetime to keep him sharp and quick and cleverer than the oafish orderlies and the conniving doctors and the Bat, most of all.

The Bat – as though summoned by a thought – descends – a death drop, nose-diving straight down kamikaze style only to stop short with a single flap of those muscled, massive wings. They are huge and terrible up close – and the power they exude in a single flap is nightmarish. You could decapitate a man with a blow from one of those wings, the Joker thinks giddly, but then remembers he is not a man – not here – not anymore. There are no men left in this grim dreamworld. There are only those whose humanity was shed long ago in an earlier stage of evolution.

With his enemy squatting over him and the flow of internal fluids beginning to subside, the Joker finds he is unable to move, unable to do anything but faintly twitch his legs. He supposes he should be afraid when the creature that once was Batman lowers its grotesque maw to his quivering abdomen and opens a mouth of a thousand daggers, but he is not. It feels inevitable, somehow, and faintly disappointing, like the sensation one feels after one’s opened the last in a series of presents and received nothing spectacular. On some level, the Joker supposes he’s always expected he’d die at the hands of the Bat, but he’d hoped to go out with more fanfare than this. Being some sort of centipede adds novelty, but there’s no audience, no drama, no excitement as the teeth crunch through the hard shell and pierce into his stomach.

There’s something crudely erotic about watching himself be devoured. It’s not something the Joker has ever given much thought to – not in a sexual sense, anyway – but watching it happen has an effect, nonetheless. Corpses get erections all the time – it’s a common side-effect of the whole process – but that’s true for humans – the Joker has no idea if it’s true for strange insectoid monstrosities. There’s no point in scrutinizing it too deeply – this dream, while lucid enough to be meta, is not pliable enough for the Joker to manipulate it. Best to just enjoy the sensation of his barbed and bulbous phallus thwacking up against his cratered belly, coating itself in blood and mud and gore.

He’s not the only one enjoying the proceedings, either. The man-half of his enemy’s formidable body is visibly aroused, his shaft turgid and drooling pre-ejaculate. The Joker has just enough strength left for a death throw, a spasm that, while feeble, is strong enough to cause his prick to brush against the Bat’s. It’s enough to distract, one primal instinct swapping for another as the Bat stops eating and shuffles closer to the torn-open abdomen, squats lower, lower, until his ass, balls, and cock are buried in the remains of the Joker’s digestive tract.

It shouldn’t feel so good – being fucked to death. There’s a joke on the tip of the madman’s tongue – something something – _and when I asked you to split me in half, I didn’t mean literally –_ but it dies on his lips, a gurgle rising in his throat.

One of those wings moves above him. He is vaguely aware of a huge claw plunging into his gut and shifting, probing, until all at once, he feels an electroshock of not-pain as it jabs clumsily at his prostate – stimulating him directly, touching exposed nerves. He’s faintly surprised he has a prostate in his present form, but not unhappily so. His own erection, which has been wilting, is suddenly painfully hard. He watches, desperate, willing his eyes to focus just a little longer, watching as the Bat steps back and lowers that saw-toothed mouth to his penis.

He thinks for a dizzying moment that he will be sucked, brought off by that strange triangular tongue, but it is not that kind of dream. The teeth sever him at the root, biting him off before he can reach orgasm.

The pain is indescribable. Exquisite.

The Joker jolts awake, still strapped down – one too many mouthy comments to an asylum guard. It comes back to him in pieces. Arkham – his cell – his too-hard bed. The smell of dampness and stale air.

_Home._

Another smell, too – familiar. _Himself._

He is not shocked to find the semen cooling in his pants. It is inevitable. Every dream of Batman ends like this. Even the really strange ones.

The orderlies will find him crusty with the evidence when they unbuckle him in the morning. When they do, they'll probably spray him down with ice water, punishing cold, but it will be worth it for the look on their faces, the disgust.

The Joker grins like an angler fish in the dark.

Dreams have no power over him; he is the apex predator here.


End file.
